No More Than I Deserve
by dancingloki
Summary: Sherlock's triumphant return to Baker Street after two years spent disassembling Moriarty's criminal empire. How will John react when Sherlock shows up alive at their door? Inspired by this post:


No More Than I Deserve

Scene: My version of the beginning of Series 3, spoilers for Reichenbach Fall

Rating: K although some serious angst at the end

Paring: Hints of Johnlock but nothing explicit

Disclaimer: I've got nothing to do with the BBC or the creators of Sherlock. I don't own anything and I'm making no profit from it. The original seed idea of this story came from a text post on tumblr (that I can no longer find) which I thought could bear expansion; if the original poster happens to see this and contact me, I'd be thrilled to give you credit for the concept.

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It took him a full two years, but he did it.

Sherlock Holmes finally had tracked down all of Moriarty's minions, uncovered and destroyed his entire criminal empire.

All his dear friends—Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John, oh God above all John Watson—were finally safe. No more snipers, no more thugs, no more hidden secrets and threats in the shadow lurking about to threaten the precious family he had built.

But the past two years of running, hiding, fighting and desperate deduction paled in comparison with the task now before him. He was doing a magnificent job of pretending that he wasn't absolutely terrified at the prospect of returning home to 221B Baker Street and facing the wrath and fury of the inestimable John Watson when he found out that Sherlock had indeed faked his death. Still, what must be done must be done, and Sherlock put on his very best fake contrite face as he raised his hand and knocked firmly on the front door.

"Yeah, just a moment" came the agonizingly familiar voice replying from inside.

The door opened, and there he was. Ex-Army Doctor John Watson, in one of his absolutely awful knit sweaters, holding a mug of tea in his free hand.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Hello, John," he said, with a hopeful half-smile.

"Oh, Sherlock. I shouldn't be surprised by now, honestly; complete bloody genius, can't go out for five minutes without forgetting his keys." John turned away halfway through speaking and wandered back into the flat, heading towards the kitchen, speaking mostly to himself, but throwing a last "All right, don't stand in the doorway, then…" over his shoulder at Sherlock.

Sherlock stood in the doorway for a long moment, taken completely aback, then followed John into their flat. He found the smaller man settling back into a simple breakfast, toast with jam and a few sausage links. John didn't look up as he entered the room, instead rustling a newspaper open as he began to eat again.

"John, I believe I may owe you an apology…" Sherlock began, with as much poise as he could muster. John heaved a heavy sigh and fixed him with his characteristic deadpan annoyed glare.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, don't start that nonsense up again, we've done it to death already and we both know you've nothing new to say on the subject."

"John, I…what? Hang on!" Sherlock sputtered, flummoxed and nearly speechless for only the second time in his life.

"Oh, forget it, it's all right." John sighed vaguely again. "Are you going over to the morgue today? I know you had that…thing…with the poisons you were working on, I think Molly said she had some new data for you." John waved his hand vaguely in the air as he spoke.

Sherlock, by this point, was very nearly completely at sea, an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation for him. He mentally scrambled to force the facts into a coherent deduction.

_John is accustomed to dealing with great mental stress. His behavior following the war showed a pattern of repression and avoidance; clearly my apparent death let his progress towards dealing with his post-traumatic stress disorder regress. His statement is likely a reference to the one-sided conversation he pursued with my grave following my funeral. He's fairly bright, for an idiot, he knows me better than anyone, he'll know I was watching him. If he chooses to deal with this "issue" through repression and denial instead of tedious emotional outbursts, there's no reason not to indulge him._

"Well, I suppose I could pop over to Scotland Yard, say hello to Lestrade, see if Molly's got any fresh corpses. Are you sure that's all right? I could stick around, if you wanted to…talk, or something…"

John remained transfixed by his breakfast and morning paper. "No, no, that's all right, you know I've got to be off to work in half an hour anyway. You go on, I know you've got your experiments to tend to." John looked up, seeming surprised to see Sherlock still standing there, staring at him. "It's all right, really, I don't mind. Go ahead."

As John turned back to his meal, Sherlock paused, shrugged and rebuttoned his coat, heading back out into the hall and down the stairs into the street to call a cab.

...

As Sherlock climbed the stairs back to 221B much later the evening of that same day, he felt the alien sensation of trepidation rise again. The hours had been very well spent; his arrival at Scotland Yard had been greeted by delight and amazement by Molly and Lestrade, and by a delicious mix of bitterness, disappointment and barely concealed rage by Anderson, Donovan and Co. He'd been charmingly begged for an account of his escape, and appropriately lauded for his genius in evading Moriarty's trap. Then, after Lestrade's annoying insistence on phoning up Mrs. Hudson, he'd been bustled off to a posh meal out and celebrated and fussed over incessantly. He'd barely managed to talk them out of ringing John as well; given how intent the doctor seemed on ignoring the issue, Sherlock didn't think Watson was likely to enjoy a party in his honor. He'd managed to talk the others out of bothering him, however, but was now having second thoughts; being excluded from the "welcome-home party" might be enough to transform Passive-Aggressive Repressive John into Projectile Ball of Rage John. No knowing what might be awaiting him on the other side of the door…

As it turned out, what awaited him was a Rather Bored John by the fireplace, in the same awful sweater, who barely looked up from his book as Sherlock walked in. "Did you have a good time over at the mortuary?"

"What? Oh, yes, I suppose…" Sherlock managed, once again taken aback.

"Get a lot done?"

"Ehm…yes? I got caught up with Molly and Lestrade, then they and Mrs. Hudson and I went out to dinner." Sherlock did his best to act casual as his disorientation grew. Why was John persisting in acting so nonchalant?

"Oh, that sounds lovely. What's the occasion?"

Sherlock slung his coat and scarf carelessly on the rack, risking a cheeky smile in John's direction. "Celebrating my glorious return, I expect."

This elicited a chuckle and an incredulous smile. "Is that all? You must be pleased."

"Yes, I suppose so," Sherlock replied. He collapsed on the sofa, fixing John with the penetrating stare most people found so disconcerting. After a moment, he spoke again, hesitantly. "John…"

"Hmm?" John looked up his book, polite interest etched in his face. When a long moment passed, he prompted, "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock lost his nerve. "Nothing, never mind." _No, wait._ "No, wait. John, are you…all right?"

John smiled, bemused. "What sort of question is that?" He turned back to his book.

"No, John, really, I mean it. Are you all right? Are _we_ all right?"

"What on earth are you talking about? Don't be daft, Sherlock, of course everything's all right. Why wouldn't it be?" John marked his page and stood with a groan. "I'm off to bed. Work again tomorrow, you know. Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John," he replied softly, watching the smaller man bustle out of the room.

...

Time passed. No interesting murders appeared, but Sherlock had enough forensic research backed up from the time he was away to keep himself busy. Or at least, to keep himself distracted enough that he didn't destroy their flat through boredom; he was determined to remain on his best behavior until he was certain John wasn't plotting some long-term revenge. Between John and Sherlock, nothing changed; John continued to act as though Sherlock had never been away, and their banter and conversation was as comfortable and casual as it had ever been.

Two or three times a week, they would wander down to the nearest pub. Every time, John would wrap up in his coat and hat without so much as a glance at Sherlock, who would watch him nervously out of the corner of his eye until he turned over to wherever the detective was carelessly slouched.

"You coming?" To which Sherlock would inevitably respond with his broadest grin, throwing on his trademark coat and scarf to follow the doctor out into the street.

Once in the pub, they would settle in side by side in the bar. Sherlock observed the other patrons while John would sip his pint, interjecting various compliments and exclamations of awe into Sherlock's deductions, egging him on to even more fantastic conclusions, laughing and smiling and ignoring how all the other patrons stared. Then they'd head home in the early hours of the morning, John occasionally buzzed enough to lean on Sherlock for support.

After the first week, Sherlock's sense of unease faded. He began to relax and simply enjoy John's company, as he had before, instead of tiptoeing around waiting for the explosion. As time went by, he got comfortable, settled back into his life; popping organs into various household appliances, desecrating corpses with Molly, casually advising Lestrade on a few cases, even popping into Scotland Yard unannounced to rub Donovan's nose in it. For the first time in a very long time, life was good for Sherlock Holmes.

Then, on one of their evening pub runs, the other shoe abruptly and violently dropped.

Outside of the pub, on the street, they saw Lestrade, clearly just off duty, coming the other way. Seeing them, he gave a cheery wave and called out: "Sherlock! Fancy running into you here! And John, good to see you, mate, it's been ages. Out for a pint, then?"

"Inspector," Sherlock rejoined with a sarcastic half-smile and stepping towards the inspector. The last thing he wanted was Lestrade buffooning about, spoiling his evening; maybe he could encourage him not to join them? "And how is London's criminal element? Dull as ever, I trust?"

"Ah, that's the way I like 'em, Sherlock. You know—bloody hell! John, are you all right?" Lestrade was staring over Sherlock's shoulder with a look of fear and concern plastered on his open face. Sherlock turned quickly round to see what had caught the policeman's eye, and reflexively darted forward, catching John's arm just as he began to sway.

John Watson had gone as pale as death, rooted to the spot, his face like a funeral mask. His eyes were wide with shock and staring at Lestrade, and a choking, strangling sound almost like a dying animal escaped from his throat through his slack mouth. As Sherlock rushed forward and caught him, he started and his gaze darted between the two men. Lestrade came up to catch his other shoulder and help steady him.

"John? John!" Lestrade was shaking his shoulder, trying to snap him out of it. "John, for God's sake, what's wrong?!"

He turned the full force of his agonizing stare on the older man, barely choking out the words: "You can…"

"You can see him too?"

Lestrade turned from John to Sherlock and back, completely lost. "What? Of course I can, he's…Holmes, what the hell is he on about?"

But Sherlock, of course, had understood instantly and closed his eyes, letting the guilt and horror of the reality wash over him. _Of course. Of course this is what would happen, and no more than I deserve._

Lestrade grabbed John's other shoulder from Sherlock's now-limp grasp, turning the smaller man towards him and looking directly into his face. "John. John, look at me." He stared directly into Lestrade's eyes, barely seeing him. "John, explain it to me. What are you talking about? What's the matter?"

John took a long, deep, shuddering breath. "He's not…he's not real, though. Sherlock's not really there. He—he came back, a few days after the funeral, I just came back home one day and he was sitting there like normal, but then Mrs. Hudson came in and she couldn't see him and I realized, he was just there—he was just in my head. I couldn't handle it, I couldn't manage losing him like that, so my b-brain just…invented a new Sherlock, and for two years I've been living with him and talking to him and we go down to the pub and I listen to him—he talks and d-deduces things like he used to and…and he's always there when I come home. But I'm not mad, I'm not, because I know he's not real, I know he's dead and he's not really there, I know it's—it's just in my head so I know I'm not mad…"

"But you talked to him, Greg. You can see him too. And that—that means he's real. He's really alive. He's—he's really back oh God…" John trailed off into another strangled choking sound as tears began to flow down his face. He swung around suddenly, shoving Lestrade away, searching desperately for the tall, slender man who he had only just realized was really back in his life.

"Sherlock?" He took a stumbling step towards the detective, tripping on the pavement and catching hold of the front of Sherlock's coat just in time to stop himself from falling.

"Sherlock…SHERLOCK!" He was shouting now, hysterical. "You're…you're back, you're really back… Sherlock?"

With a sudden shuddering intake of breath, Sherlock opened his eyes, staring straight down, right into John's face. The confusion and desperation in the face of his dearest and most loyal friend was too much, and for the first time in his life he wrapped his arms around another human being, pulling John into his chest in a tight embrace.

"I'm here, John. It's…it's all right now." Sherlock's voice broke, and he hugged John even closer than before. "Oh John, I'm so…I'm so sorry."

"I'm so sorry."

THE END


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